birthday

in which the words that I desperately want to utter has choked and has left me gasping for air; I breathe but only to be drowned over and over again. Amdist forced letters and spaces, I still find the solace albeit ephemeral, stolen and candid like a bandit in the wee hours of the night. In the supposition of paying it forward, here’s something to some man who was once–hopes still is–an inspiration. Thank you and happy birthday.

tl;dr: a poem written on the notion of “being in love”, unrequitted love that is. Title read as eleven-eleven P.M. Would love to hear what you guys think and so do chirp in the comments section 🙂